


You Look Great in Latte

by 3_Patch_Problem_Child



Series: A New Road [5]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Cannon Compliant through SPN Season 4:06 "Yellow Fever", Dirty Talk, Fluff, Gratuitous use of paint colors, M/M, Porn without just a tiny bit of plot, Romance, Shameless Smut, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-25
Updated: 2015-10-25
Packaged: 2018-04-27 23:48:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5069596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/3_Patch_Problem_Child/pseuds/3_Patch_Problem_Child
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the fifth installment of a 12-part SPN series. After a chat about boardwalk games and the Almighty, Sam and Dean have made it to Bobby's. There is talk of what comes next, shameless abuse of the Goo-Goo Dolls, private moments, and wasting paint in pursuit of sexy fun, and smut, smut, smut!</p>
<p>Thank you all for the Con-crit, kudos, and comments! Please remember the con-crit, kudos, and comments make the world go around, even more than money!  </p>
<p>TRIGGER WARNING: This is smutty fun, no real triggers abounding here.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Look Great in Latte

“Dean it will be fun, I promise.”   
  
Famous last words uttered from the sumptuous lips of his normalcy-craving freak of a lover. Dean blushes at the thought. Lover, not pain-in-the-ass little brother, although, he was still that and then some, but Sammy,  _his_  Sammy had become something more in the past month and now, after arriving at Bobby Singer’s salvage yard via Air Angel they were finally getting the chance to have a little down time. They were planning one last hunt and then giving up the job. Sam and Dean Winchester were going to attempt living like regular folks, okay so they were regular folks who understood how to construct ancient Sumerian banishing rituals that actually worked and knew their way around the business end of any number of deadly weapons. Then there was their decidedly unconventional relationship. Yeah, just regular Joe Public’s.   
  
And what were they going to do with some of their much deserved respite? They were going to paint Bobby Singer’s front room. And painting is not fun. Making out in the back seat of the Impala is fun; Sam’s jean’s balled up on the front bench, his scrumptious, muscular ass grinding against Dean’s cock as the windows fog over and they explore each other like horny teenagers. That is fun. Lathering Sam’s thighs with honey scented foam and sliding against him in the shower. That is fun. It’s also girly as all hell, but no one had to know it was Dean who picked the honey vanilla-bean shower gel or the giant lavender shower poof that made a fuck ton of suds. Nope, he’d lie that at Sam’s feet all the way down the line.  
  
“Sammy, why don’t we just hire someone? We have a little extra cash.”  
  
“No, Bobby asked _us_ to do it; we owe him that, he’s been like a father to us these last few years.”  
  
“Dad did the best he could, Sammy; he just didn’t have that much to work with.” Dean’s breath catches in his throat as he imagines his father, the stalwart rampart of muscle, bone, and rabid determination that drove his boys forward into a life that ground all three to dust. Their father; the man who loved them enough to sacrifice himself for the sake of a decades long obsession and justice but not enough to send them to the same school for more than a few weeks. Endless training, never being good enough, the car isn't clean enough, youre not strong enough, not smart enough, no, he was never smart enough. _Jesus Dean, I wouldn't have given her to you if I thought you wouldn't take care of her_ , _watch out for Sammy,_  a constant barrage of disappointment and inadequacy aimed at him, he bore John's pain, as a son and a soldier and yet, in spite of it all Dean bristles when he thinks that Sam is being overcritical of their father.  
  
“Dean, that’s not what I mean and you know it. I mean the house in Vermont, everything…even this.” Sam weaves his fingers through Dean’s and curls closer to him, reveling in the heat radiating from his skin. They lay in bed, Bobby’s rumbling snores echoing throughout the house and the wind creaking and keening through the wrecks in the salvage yard.   
  
Sam dips his head and looks through his bangs at Dean with _that_ look. Mother-fucker. Sammy knew what it did to him, knew that no matter what he was asking, all he had to do was flash a glimmer of those dimples and that pleading puppy dog stare and it was his. _Here kid, you need a lung, because I just found this extra one in my chest and figured you might be able to use it._  
  
***  
  
Dean wakes up and reaches across the expanse of their bed feeling the cool empty space where Sam should be and sits up on his elbows listening to the morning sounds in Bobby’s house, grateful for the small comforts of home; the warm aroma of coffee, frying bacon, and…paint. _Ugh._ Dean swings his legs over the bed and throws on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt and heads downstairs for coffee and,  _Argh,_ painting.

Dean tumbles a coffee mug from a cabinet. His lips twitch as he listens to Sam singing to whatever douche-bag complaint rock he’s got blaring on the radio in the living room.   
  
He loves that man, craves the sweep of Sam’s fingers against the taught skin of his back, delights in listening to him mumble and snore as he curls closer to Dean in sleep, riding out dreams that no longer cause him agony with their desperate and deadly portents. He knows Sam as he knows the creases in his own face and the feel of his breath in his own throat and yet, he cannot, for the life of him, figure out how his _Sammy_ has developed such craptastic taste in music.  
  
A note on the stove catches Dean’s eye;  
  
_Boys — Coffee is fresh, everything you need to finish the job is in the living room, try not to get paint everywhere. I’ll be back tomorrow; you know how to reach me. Bobby._  
  
“Atta boy, Bobby.” Dean smiles, Bobby Singer was off to visit a _friend_ who had lost her husband to the hunt a few years ago. The two had grown close over the years and with the apocalypse no longer threatening to tear them all to shreds, Bobby had actually started to contemplate a life outside of wrecked cars and ancient texts.   
  
The music in the living room ratchets up a notch and Dean uses the full measure of his hunter’s skills to slip back into the hallway and around toward the other, less exposed entrance to the room Sam is painting. Dean chuckles, at once amused and relieved, amused because his little brother is so engrossed in painting and singing that he didn’t hear or see Dean walk into the kitchen and relieved because maybe, just maybe the toll that a life of constant vigilance has taken on his sensitive and sweet little brother may not be irreversible. And Sammy was sweet, a sweet little boy who worried about his family, who loved without question and wept enough for all three of them at the loss and horror that filled their daily lives. Dean’s fingers stretch toward the amulet he has worn since that Christmas so many years ago as his eyes prick with tears.   
  
_Sammy, I swear I will give you the life you deserve._ The gravity of the moment and Dean’s silent oath is interrupted by a screech from the living room as Sam tries to mimic the rising pitch of, _Is that Ian Astbury?_ Dean thinks and realizes that Sam had dug his favorite mix tape out of the glove box. The tape was the only one Dean would tolerate listening to when Sam’s complaints about Zeppelin or Metallica got too annoying to bare.  
  
Dean slides down the wall and sits just outside the doorframe that leads to the living room from the front hall. He watches Sam painting, baggy, low slung jeans rolled at the ankles, his gargantuan bare feet tapping in time to the music, and a white wife-beater of Dean’s stretched across the muscular plains of his chest.   
  
The Cult song ends, followed by a few seconds of silence, and then the next song begins and Dean has to slap his hand over his mouth to keep from laughing as Sam pumps the fist in the air and hisses “Yesssss” letting loose a spatter of light coffee colored paint that speckles his hair and the golden cream-colored skin of his broad shoulders.   
  
The gentle strum of an acoustic guitar floods into the room as the singer begins to croon in a breathy husk:  
  
_Baby's black balloon makes her fly  
I almost fell into that hole in your life  
and you're not thinking about tomorrow  
'Cause you were the same as me  
But on your knees..._  
  
The music swells and Sam’s free hand is strumming the air as his voice raps around the lyrics, his lithe, slender body swaying in time to the beat of the song:  
  
_A thousand other boys could never reach you  
how could I have been the one?  
I saw the world spin beneath you…_  
  
Dean flushes, he has never listened to the lyrics of the song before. Dean knows that the song is one of Sam’s favorites, he has teased Sam enough about liking a band with such a ridiculous name, has received many a slug to the shoulder for insisting that James Hetfield could make Johnny Rzeznick his bitch on song writing capability alone. But now, listening to Sam shriek along to the music, he hears the message, the longing as the chorus winds its way into the second verse and Dean shudders:  
  
_You know the lies they always told you  
and the love you never knew  
what’s the things they never showed you  
That swallowed the light from the sun   
Inside your room..._  
  
Dean’s attention turns back to Sam, who has abandon painting and has swayed so that Dean can see his face in profile, eyes shut, holding the handle of the paint brush like a microphone. Sam sings in full voice along to second chorus. The song’s crescendo whips around them both in a symphony of strings woven with modern drum licks and acoustic guitar.   
  
Sam’s hips cant from side to side and despite the strange intimacy that curls around them in this moment Dean thinks _Good God, how can a boy so talented in the rack be such a crap dancer._ , followed by, _Oh shit, I think he just splattered paint on the Malleus Malificarum, Bobby’s going to kill us_.  
  
Dean doesn’t care about the book though, precious, priceless text that it is, because he is transfixed by the joy radiating from Sam’s face. Dean knows it’s born from the simplicity of singing along to his favorite song and painting a room. Two _normal_  things that they have never really had the opportunity to experience together; it is the first steps toward a life, a home. It is the comfort of knowing your lover is close and safe while you revel in your own thoughts; a private moment driven only by the joy of one breath surging into the next.   
  
Tears now flow free over Dean’s cheeks because he sees the shift in Sammy’s expression, the lightening in his brow as he jumps up and down, hand stretched toward the ceiling, fingers splayed, shouting the final chorus as if he could brand the words into Dean’s skin:  
  
_Comin' down the world turned over  
And angels fall without you there  
And I go on as you get colder  
  
All because I'm  
Comin' down the years turn over   
And angels fall without you there  
And I'll go and lead you home and  
All because I'm  
All because I'm  
And I'll become  
What you became to me..._  
  
The song eases to its finale with a delicate tease of strings and Sam leans down to wipe paint drops from his bare toes. Dean claps, because he is a big brother after all and he cannot resist the urge.  
  
Sam spins around a scarlet blush washing across the sharp cheekbones, his hazel eyes narrowed, full lips pulled into a shocked and embarrassed “o”.  
  
“Sammy that, was one hell of a performance. What do you do for an encore?” Dean chuckles.   
  
“You dick, how long have you been there.” Sam’s stamps his foot and his indignant posture causes a howl of laughter to erupt from Dean’s mouth.   
  
“Long enough, dude. Long enough. You’re very hot when you sing, although you need to work on your moves; you dance like someone’s attached live jumper cables to your ass.” Dean steps into the room, eyes twinkling with mischief. “I could teach you, you know; a little lesson in the horizontal mambo.”   
  
Sam starts to laugh as well. " _Horizontal mambo_. What is it, 1975? Dude, how you ever got laid before me is a total mystery.” Sam feels a rush of desire thinking of Dean watching him while he was unaware and is bolstered by the playfulness of their banter. Their lives haven’t allowed them much of this, connection that isn’t fraught with worry over impending disaster. Pure, unadulterated joy bubbles in his chest and without thinking Sam dips the brush in the paint can and flicks the loaded bristles at Dean, shrieking with laughter as a strip of paint whips across the chest of Dean’s shirt and Dean’s eyes go wide with surprise.  
  
Dean cocks an eyebrow, the twist in his full, cupid bow of a mouth curling into a devilish grin. “Is that how you want to play this Sammy?” He growls and strips his t-shirt off revealing the chiseled curve of his abs and the trail of golden hair leading from his navel into the waist band of his jeans.  
  
Sam’s mouth begins to water and Dean uses Sam’s distraction to his advantage, dipping his index finger into the paint can and brushing a line of the creamy colored paint across Sam’s cheekbone.  
  
“Oh, dude,” Sam’s voice prowls around its lower register, the rumble of his breath hot on Dean’s skin as he leans in and rubs his paint covered cheek up the length of Dean’s neck, stopping to suck on his earlobe before whispering, “it’s ON!”  


****

  
Dean feels the cool slick of paint against his neck and shudders as Sam licks and nips at his ear lobe. His eyes flutter closed as he luxuriates in warmth and rhythm of Sam’s breath on his skin. Sam seizes the moment of distraction and raises his brush hand, slapping the paint laden bristles against Dean’s opposite cheek and _giggling_?.  Dean cannot remember the last time he heard his brother giggle.

Laugh, sure Dean hears Sam laugh all the time, he’s well versed in Sam’s laughter, from the sarcastic, head-shaking chuckle that says _jesusDeanifyouweren’tsofuckinghot_ that follows Sam discovering his laptop is frozen on porn, to the gasping _ohmygodifyoudon’tstopmyheadwillexplode_ howls that usually accompany Dean realizing his hand  has been super-glued to a beer bottle. But this breathy, bubbling stutter is a sound that Dean has not heard since Sam was a little boy; a joyful noise that he thought had been sucked from Sam’s lungs by the monster in the closet, despair, and the crushing weight of the hunt. 

“Oh _Samantha_ , you are so dead.” Dean’s hand flashes out to Sam’s wrist and twists to pull the brush from Sam’s hand. Sam’s foot shoots between Dean’s legs and sweeps Dean onto his back with a thud. Dean’s hand on his wrist tips his balance and Sam crashes onto Dean’s chest huffing out an “ooofff.” 

The scuffle upsets the paint can, Dean feels a flood of thick, cool liquid pooling around his shoulder and groans. Sam throws his head back, peels of laughter erupting from deep in his chest as he pins Dean to the drop cloth with his weight, hips thrust against his lover’s, as he plants a painted hand on the top of Dean’s head. Dean swirls his palms in the paint that has rushed across the drop cloth beneath him and slaps his splayed hands on Sam’s ass and pulls him close.

“Dude, this is a good pair of jeans.” Sam chokes out between gasps.

“Just a little reminder that your ass is mine, baby.” Dean growls with playful possessiveness.

The rumbling smoke and whiskey of Dean’s voice surges across Sam’s skin like an uncontrolled brush fire and he feels hardness gather between them. “Like I ever needed one.”

Sam’s laughter ebbs and they gaze at each other, _love you_ and _stay_ and _always_  floats between them as their playfulness shifts and their breathing synchronizes.  Sam brushes his lips against Dean’s, his tongue glides across Dean’s bottom lip. Dean’s mouth opens and Sam captures his sigh as if he will suffocate without the sweet ghost of Dean’s sustaining breath. 

Dean yanks Sam’s shirt over his head, needing that thin layer of offending fabric that separates them gone. He drags his fingers across broad expanse of Sam’s muscular back imagining the pale stripes of paint on Sam’s back, the marks like a bare footprint pressed in the hard pack of sand at low tide, imperfect, ephemeral proof of his presence as Sam’s lover. The thought of seeing the stain that his eager fingers have left on the topography of his lover’s beautiful skin elicits a moan of pleasure that shatters the silence of the room.

“Sammy, baby, need to feel you, please.” Dean’s hungry cry is punctuated by a thrust of his hips. The words hang in the moment for a second within a second and then Sam’s hand snakes between them frantically pulling at their jeans, wasting no time on stripping them bare, shoving their pants down and away to free velvet steel, each man gasps as tender skin connects and they begin to move together.

Their bodies glide and pour against each other with the same tender ferocity of rapids caressing a solid rock face; a gentle force that carves and shapes the landscape. Dean strokes Sam’s flushed cheeks, feasting on Sam’s tongue, sucking at the wet heat of his lover’s mouth .

“Beautiful.” Sam groans in between kisses. “So goddamn beautiful, Dean.” The unrestrained need in Sam’s voice drives Dean toward the edge, his body beginning to shake as his climax builds, quick and fierce. Sam feels Dean’s tremors and pushes up on his hands to increase the intensity of pressure between their bodies, his own pleasure starting to peak.

“Come, baby. Come with me now.” Their eyes lock and both men experience the white cascading heat of ecstasy, searing wet heat exploding between them and flooding the room with the salt-water sweet musk of their union. 

Sam leans his forehead against Dean’s and they pant together into the silence.

“I love you, Sammy.” 

Sam’s heart flutters. It never ceases to make his knees weak; the way Dean’s voice deepens to a confessional tone after they make love.

“Love you too.”

Sam rolls off Dean and grimaces as his naked hip connects with the pool of spilled paint.

“Guess we broke the _no fucking in the house_ rule, huh?” Dean sits up and rights the fallen paint can wondering how in the hell they are going to make it to the shower without tracking paint through the entirety of the house.

“Dude, what Bobby doesn’t know won’t hurt him.” Sam surveys the damage with trepidation.

“Yeah, he won’t be back until tomorrow, so…” Dean cocks an eyebrow and tilts his head looking at Sam through his long, golden lashes.

“So?”

Dean strokes Sam’s nipple with his thumb and he feels his arousal starting to grow.

“So, wanna join me in the shower?  I’ll wash your back, if you wash mine? ”

“I could be persuaded.”

Dean stands and pulls off his paint soaked jeans, wiping as much paint off his bare feet as possible and then stepping onto the bare floor naked.  He huffs out a laugh as he watches Sam struggle to do the same. “Dude, I think we’re going to need more paint, what power-puff nightmare of a color is this anyway?” 

Sam picks up the lid to the paint can and reads the color and his full lips quirk into a smile.

“Latte.”

“ _Latte_? Oh man, it is a good thing Bobby is finally getting some strange.” Dean holds out a hand, beckoning Sam to follow him, anxious to feel the warm spray of the shower and the slick slide of Sam’s naked body against his own.

“What’s wrong with this color?”

“Nothing, it’s like a non-color, it’s got no, you know,  _umph_.”

“I don’t know about that,” Sam’s eyes rake over Dean’s naked body, from his paint spattered feet to the smears of pale coffee speckled and smeared across his golden chest and full, cherubic cheeks. “It certainly looks great on you.”


End file.
